


Cold Comfort

by thedevilchicken



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Father/Son Incest, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Revelations, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 14:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15996986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: While trekking through the snow, Haytham decides to teach Connor a lesson about their familial relationship. It turns out not to be quite the lesson that he meant to teach.





	Cold Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neverminetohold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/gifts).



"Do I remind you of my mother?" Connor asks, his tone studiously offhand, as they continue to trudge through the snow after their target. 

It has been three days now since they stepped off the beaten path and Connor, by necessity, took the lead. Haytham is used to long marches, used to physical exertion, and even used to the encroaching numbness in his toes from the chill of the snow through his boots, but he is no longer used to following another's lead. He is ill at ease, and he knows this is obvious. Connor, being his son, has evidently made the choice to press this small advantage. 

"Not especially, no," Haytham replies. 

"I think you lie," Connor says, though his voice lacks its apparently customary heat. He is not looking at him; he is following the trail through the trees, such as it is, and his back is turned to him. One might be forgiven for believing that is a sign of trust. 

"Of course I do," Haytham replies. "But not about this." 

Fresh flakes have begun to fall as night approaches and he blinks them from his eyes to study Connor's back. He supposes there is a superficial resemblance, perhaps more than superficial when he takes into account their shared tendence toward decisive action, but what he sees when he looks at Connor is not Ziio. He sees a Kenway. He sees himself. 

They move on. The snow thickens and the wind picks up and the sky begins to darken until Haytham can barely see twelve inches in front of him. He stumbles with almost every step in banks that rise up over the tops of his boots and he would rather be somewhere else, anywhere else, in a stinking English tavern or a dockside brothel, than this cold and endless falling. Except then Connor drags him forward, and out of the snowstorm rises a small cabin. It is a welcome sight.

They duck inside together, through the open door that is hanging from its hinges. There is a hole in the roof the size of three large barrels through which the snow continues falling, but the half-rotted remains of the small structure do provide at least a little cover. There is wood at the heart of the stack by the tumbledown fireplace that has not yet succumbed to the damp and while Haytham's fingers tremble, Connor finds a way to set a fire. He sits cross-legged on the floor before it and the momentary glance he shoots over his shoulder, sharp as an arrow, makes Haytham chuckle as he moves to join him. He is concerned that the remaining chairs would splinter with his weight, so far gone to rot are they, and so the floor seems quite inviting.

"We should rest," Connor says. "Perhaps the snow will be gone by morning." 

"As will the trail we followed," Haytham replies. 

"If you prefer to proceed alone, I will not stop you." 

Haytham clucks his tongue. He does not move. 

"Do you wish to remind me of her?" he asks. "She was beautiful. Intelligent. Skilled. Sharp." And this time, it is Connor who is caught off guard, with a heated sideways look. 

"Do you say I am not those things?" he asks. 

"In quite a different way, I can assure you." He considers him in the firelight, the flames dancing orange on his skin and in his eyes. "To begin with, you are a great deal taller than she was. And rather more prone to making rash decisions without considering their consequences." 

Connor huffs. 

"Though you have both made the choice to trust me. I suppose in that respect you are alike." 

"I do not trust you," Connor says, then huffs again. Haytham shivers. Connor seems to shiver in sympathy, and snow swirls in the air around them, wind howling across the gaping hole in the cabin's roof. 

"Come here," Haytham says, holding out one arm, and Connor gives him a long, hard look before he does as he was told. Haytham retrieves a blanket from his pack and sweeps it around their shoulders as they sit there side by side, not that it provides much in the way of warmth, which is likely the reason that Connor moves away, stretches out on his side and then drags Haytham with him. They shiver, chest pressed to chest, am arm around each other's waist beneath the blanket. Their packs make adequate pillows and the blanket is, quite luckily, large enough to tuck beneath their bootheels and still cover their heads, also. They cocoon themselves together, foreheads touching as they shiver, only far enough from the fire that they will not burn. 

"I do not wish to remind you of her," Connor says. His gloved fingers take a handful of the back of Haytham's coat, at the small of his back. 

"You wish to be seen as your own man, then?"

"Yes." 

Haytham chuckles. "I am afraid you will never be that," he says. "There is as least as much of myself in you as there is her." 

"You are not inside me," Connor retorts, hotly, and Haytham understands his sentiment but it strikes him in a way that Connor could not mean it to. He feels a flash of unanticipated heat and within that flash is the image of himself _inside him_. Haytham is not given to sexual conquest with the frequency of some of his colleagues, but he understands the impulse. In some ways, to conquer Connor would be to conquer himself; in other ways, it would be to revisit Ziio; in others still, Connor is solid and warm and virile and attractive, and fucking a man such as he is would be a pleasure in which Haytham rarely indulges. It would not do for a man of his standing to be caught in dalliances with a member of his own sex, still less with his own illegitimate half-native son. But perhaps he can press the inference to his own advantage. Perhaps he can use it to make Connor see who has the sharper wit, and who should take the lead.

"I could be," he says, speculatively. "Would you enjoy that, Connor?"

"Would I enjoy..." Connor begins, as if sounding out the words in order to make sense of them. "Would I enjoy you being--" He stops abruptly. He goes very still and takes a long, laboured breath, which are signs by which Haytham knows he understands. 

"Is that an English custom?" Connor asks. "In your country, do fathers often lie with their sons?"

"No, they do not," Haytham replies. 

"Then yes," Connor says, carefully. "I would enjoy that." 

Haytham understands: Connor thinks that this will sound the final death knell of what Haytham believes is their father-son relationship. He thinks that Haytham fucking him will signal their divorce one from the other and demonstrate that their consanguinity is of no inherent import. Haytham supposes he fell into that trap and so he must remove himself from it; he slips one gloved hand down between Connor's thighs and squeezes. Connor takes a breath through his bared teeth. Haytham feels him begin to stiffen. 

He pushes Connor down onto his back on the warmed stretch of floor that lies between them and fireplace and he settles there on top of him, propped up on his forearms, abdomen pressed to abdomen. Connor allows him to do it; he has no difficulty admitting that if Connor wished to resist, he could. As the blanket pulls away from their heads, the cooler air makes them both shiver, but with the blanket pulled away from their heads, he can see Connor's face in the firelight. Haytham watches his Adam's apple shift as he swallows. He watches him fight to keep his expression neutral. He is too large and strong and substantial to be considered traditionally beautiful, Haytham thinks, but he is striking. 

When Connor moistens his lips with the tip of his tongue, Haytham kisses him. He presses his mouth to his and there could have been a chance for that to feel chaste, or familial, except that he sucks on Connor's full bottom lip and rakes it with his teeth before he pulls away. Connor seems to understand the situation because he lifts his knees, his feet flat to the floor, his thighs bracketing Haytham's hips. Haytham can feel how hard he is and it makes him push up onto his knees between Connor's thighs to pull open Connor's trousers. He frees his cock, and finds it long and thick and moist at the tip as he eases back his foreskin with one hand. 

He spreads that moisture with the pad of his thumb, slowly, firmly, making Connor shift. Then he moves, and he licks away that moisture with his tongue. Connor groans out loud as he takes him into his mouth, as if he's never felt a thing like this before. Perhaps he hasn't. Perhaps that's true. And when Haytham pulls back, Connor's cock shines in the firelight, so fucking alluring that Haytham almost wants to sink down on it himself and ride him there, which is an act that he has not considered in some years. He doesn't. He moves aside. 

It would be easier to have Connor turn onto his knees, and Haytham knows this. He knows this and still what he does is begin to remove his clothing instead, his boots, leggings, trousers, until he's bare from the waist down on the bare wooden floor. He pauses a moment and then he helps to pull Connor's boots back on and Connor snorts, apparently amused by the idea that he's bare only where it matters that he's bare. Except then Haytham unbuckles his own belt and pushes down his own trousers, and he frees his own cock. As Connor watches, he no longer looks or sounds amused. As Haytham strokes himself, kneeling there between Connor's thighs, it is perfectly evident what he means to do next. Connor surely could not but understand. 

There is oil in his pack, which he quickly retrieves once he has removed his gloves and then he uses it to slick himself, until his cock glistens in the light of the open fire. He re-oils his fingers and he trails them lightly over Connor's cock, his balls, behind them, rubbing there against the smooth stretch of skin that leads back toward the opening that Haytham hopes to enter. More oil still and Haytham's fingers rub against the hole he finds hidden between Connor's cheeks, the muscle drawn so tight it feels impenetrable. 

"I do not intend to hurt you," Haytham says, glancing up at Connor's flushed face, "but this will hurt nonetheless if you cannot relax yourself." So Connor nods and he draws his knees higher, the fringes of his leggings all hanging the wrong way, and Haytham feels the muscle at his fingertips begin to ease. He does not push them into him. He wants the first tool of penetration to be his cock instead and so he pulls back and he leans down and he guides the glossy tip to Connor's hole. Tingles of anticipation flow throughout him, down into his belly where a low heat pools. He eases forward, braced on his knees and leaning on one hand; the other hand he uses to keep his cock in place as he begins to enter him. 

Connor's breath hitches. Haytham's pulse races and his cock fucking throbs because Connor is hot and tight and wrapping his legs around him, his calves across his back, ankles cinched at the small of his back. He pulls him in deeper. Haytham gasps a breath. His other hand goes down to the floor and he shifts his hips. Connor groans, his head lolling back, his hair splayed, fingers clawing at the floor. Haytham moves inside him, feeling Connor's hole twitch tight around him and relax again, twitch tight and relax, as if Haytham's cock is on the very cusp of too large for him to take. Then Connor moves, shifting against him, forcing him deeper, and Haytham is swept along by this, into a slow, deep rhythm that makes Connor clench his teeth and set his jaw. Haytham finds he likes the way that looks, how the muscles stand out momentarily in Connor's bare neck, and he can't help but fuck him harder, his hips snapping with a sound of skin on skin. 

Connor comes first. Haytham has not even touched his cock but he comes over Haytham's belly and his own in long, tense bursts that seem to take him completely by surprise. He moans through his gritted teeth, fingers clawing hard at Haytham's shoulders, and Haytham pauses to feel it, to enjoy the feeling of Connor's already tight hole pulling tighter around the length of him in spasms that Connor could not hope to control. He feels the pleasure of it singing in him, almost enough to overcome the cold in and of itself, and he looks down at Connor at the very same instant that Connor's eyes open to look up at him. 

They don't mean for their gazes to meet, but that is the effect. Connor's hole gives another twitch. Haytham's hips shift just a fraction. And somehow that is enough that Haytham, who has until now believed so deeply in his own self-control, feels his orgasm strike him rather like a cudgel from behind: his gaze and Connor's are conjoined as he groans out loud and spills himself inside him. All at once, he is struck by the intimacy of the act they have performed. He can tell by the look on Connor's face that this realisation is another thing they share.

"Connor," Haytham says. 

"Father," Connor replies, and Haytham pulls back. He pulls out. Connor's hole is slick with oil and the same seed that played a part in his creation and when Haytham rubs his fingertips there, his brows quirking, Connor seems to understand his point. They are father and son. They are the same but different. Haytham Kenway will always be inside him, in one way or another, but to his surprise it seems that Connor is inside him, too. 

They sleep beneath the blanket, tangled with each other, though Haytham tells himself they do that for the warmth. In the morning, Connor stands and turns away and pushes down his trousers, and Haytham has him standing there; they lean against the lintel in the wall above the fireplace, fucking in the warmth of the fire's dying embers. Connor comes in its ashes over Haytham's almost steady hand. Haytham comes inside him, with his mouth pressed to Connor's neck. 

This was meant to to be a lesson to his son but instead it is a lesson to them both, he thinks. Connor believed this would signal an end, as if sex would prove that the blood they share means nothing. He believed that Connor belonged to him and sought to show him that, but now he understands they belong to each other, however that must end. For now, however, this is not the end; it is instead a beginning.

Haytham did not mean for this to happen. But, as they leave the cabin in the woods, as Connor motions that he follow, he cannot find it in him to regret it. Perhaps one day he will, but that day is not today.


End file.
